


Silent Cry

by Blue_Five



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Feral Derek Hale, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-09-23 07:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20336104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Five/pseuds/Blue_Five
Summary: A Hunter attack has left Derek Hale seriously injured and in danger of going feral.  If he does, the Hale Pack will have to kill him.  Stiles Stilinski is the strongest Spark born in a millennia.  He has to try and reach Derek before it's too late.





	1. Last Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this outline on my computer for a while but never been motivated to write it. If you like what you see, please comment and/or kudos so I know whether it's worth my while to write any more. Blessings!

The medical file sitting on his desk at first offers the usual summary of injuries and treatment courses. As he delves deeper, however, the details begin to paint a rather horrific picture. 

“Alan,” He gasps. 

Dr. Alan Deaton is a well-regarded Master in Druid circles. He specializes in more difficult cases — the sort that sit on his colleague’s blotter. He’s known Mieczysław Stilinski since before the young man chose to go by the more easily pronounceable ‘Stiles’. After all, it’s hard to ignore the first true Spark born in a millennia. Deaton pulls himself back to the conversation at hand. 

“Yes, I know. A terrible, terrible event.”

Stiles snorts derisively. “Terrible? Try _ ‘unconscionable’! _Tell me they were found … better yet, tell me how the hell this wasn’t all over the news or the oracles!”

Alan sighs. “The Hale Pack has a very long reach.”

“Not over every Seer on the planet, Alan.”

Deaton stands. He walks to the window in Stiles’ office and pulls the curtains open. Sunlight streams into the room and instantly Alan feels easier. He looks back at Stiles. 

“Suffice to say the matter was not made public and they have requested more … help … to deal with the situation. Specifically they’ve requested you.”

Stiles closes the file. “His injuries were inflicted while he was Shifted, Alan. What the wolfsbane didn’t damage his healing factor should have dealt with.”

“It tried.”

“It —“ Stiles frowns, then his eyebrows rise. “He was weakened by the wolfsbane in his bloodstream … his body couldn’t heal the other injuries.”

“Exactly.”

“Ok, there’s something you aren’t telling me. This attack was nearly eight months ago which is more than enough time for an Alpha to heal even from phosphorus burns. What gives?”

Alan clears his throat and returns to his chair. “What gives is that he _ isn’t _healing. He’s made minimal progress and the infections keep returning. Coupled with the fact that he cannot see, speak or even hear … Derek is on the cusp of going feral. If he does, his Pack will be forced to execute him.”

Stiles tenses. “Ex-execute?”

“It’s custom and necessary, Stiles. As a born Alpha, Derek’s blood rampage could leave half of Beacon Hills open for slaughter. He’d be too strong for anyone to take down without killing him and even that wouldn’t be guaranteed. It’s not an option they’ve considered lightly nor is it the outcome they want by any means. Derek … just can’t seem to be reached.”

Stiles stands and walks to a small camouflaged refrigerator built into his bookshelves. He grabs the can of soda and pops it open while his mind plays over all the information Deaton has provided. Alan muses, not for the first time, that the lanky troublemaker who gave his father and any other adult who knew him so many gray hairs is gone. Stiles is a man now, brought to this moment by a grievous share of sorrow and trauma all his own. It is that past which Deaton hopes will sway Stiles’ decision. If the Spark does not accept this request -- Alan knows Derek Hale will lose everything -- his mind, his humanity and his life.

Stiles looks toward Deaton and motions with the can. “I have to be allowed to do whatever I feel necessary to do my assessment. If I don’t think I can reach him or learn what is keeping him from healing, I won’t try,” Stiles warns. 

Deaton knows it isn’t fear of failure behind the request. Stiles’ power manifested and taught him the necessity of balance in all things. To maintain such a balance, a person’s free will must be respected -- and Stiles does not budge from that belief. Alan knows this is why the Hale Pack has come to him. Derek’s injuries may never heal. Other Healers have tried to push the werewolf’s body into healing but it’s become all too clear that something other than just physical damage is holding Derek back. If Stiles cannot find that cause, he will not force his will nor that of Derek’s family and Pack on the wolf. The Pack will have to make their own decisions. He nods at the Spark. 

“I’ll relay your conditions. Thank you, Stiles,” Deaton offers, the relief in his voice evident.

Stiles shakes his head. “Thank me when I’ve actually done something.”

* * *

“Sure you’re up to this?”

Stiles smiles over at his dad. Ever the mother hen, John Stilinski is no less worried about his son now than when he was Sheriff and a teenaged Stiles seemed to always find his way into danger. John accepts that Stiles is a man now but he’ll forever consider him a boy, Spark or not. He ruffles the neatly trimmed hair just to see the expected reaction.

Stiles doesn’t disappoint -- he slaps at his dad’s hand and then frantically finger-combs his locks back into place with a squawked protest.

“Hey! I’m adulting here! I can’t meet the Hale Pack looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

John laughs and pats Stiles on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you look sharp, kid.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes but John means the compliment. Long gone are the hoodies, flannels and graphic tees that made up his son’s wardrobe back in his younger days. 

Today Stiles sports dark washed jeans, carefully pressed and a stylish button-up with rolled up sleeves. The silhouette emphasizes Stiles’ lean form but muscle has replaced the coltish arms and legs of his teen years. Stiles wears military boots always but they are clean and polished to a high sheen. A leather jacket over everything ties the ensemble together and John shakes his head at the fact that he’s used a word like ‘ensemble’ in reference to his son’s wardrobe choices. 

Stiles moves to his dresser and chooses his favorite watch. It’s of the tactical sort designed to take a beating. Out of deference to meeting the Hale Pack, Stiles made sure his own scent is not hidden by cologne or even deodorant. Once they have his smell, the Pack will be able to identify him no matter what hygiene products he uses. For now, mild soap and toothpaste are all he’s bothered with -- he just hopes things don’t get too physical right off the bat. Wolves might not mind bodily odor like humans but Stiles can’t stand himself when he’s even skipped a single shower. He checks his nails even though he trimmed and filed them just last night. John chuckles and Stiles levels a glare in his direction.

“I like to keep them neat, dad. That’s not a bad thing.”

John holds up his hands. “No, it’s not. I’m just remembering when I had to _ beg _ you to shower and keep your nails trimmed.”

“Hey, I trimmed --”

“Chewing them to the quick isn’t the same thing, Stiles. You looked like your fingertips had been through a shredder most days,” John reminds.

“Whatever, I remember it differently,” Stiles says loftily. He knows he was that bad but it wouldn’t do to let his dad know he won. “I think I’m ready. I don’t know how long this one’ll take so --”

John pulls Stiles into a brief hug, careful not to wrinkle him. He holds firm to his son’s shoulders. “You know the routine -- call me for anything. Even just to talk about -- anything.” 

Stiles presses their foreheads together and John sighs at the slight tingling sensation. 

“I know, kid. You’re all grown up --- I still worry. I’m your dad.”

Stiles nods. “I know. If I need my pillow, I’ll call. If things get … hard … I’ll call. Promise.”

John exhales softly. “I hope you can help him, Stiles. I really do.”

“Me too, Dad. Me too.”


	2. Nice to Meet You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I hope y’all are still out there. Love me some feedback. Love you too.

"He's a _ child _ , Talia. You cannot seriously intend to lay the life of your _ son _on the shoulders of a ... a troublemaking teenager who has a police record nearly as long as my own!"

Talia Hale rarely indulges her brother’s outbursts but she knows his heart is as shattered as her own. Despite his selfish tendencies, Peter does not suffer injury to his family or Pack easily. Talia thinks Derek would be shocked to know just how fiercely Peter defended his nephew and threatened to flee with the injured wolf if anyone tried to put the young man down. 

His reluctance now reflects a dwindling hope for Derek’s recovery. Talia knows how much guilt her brother bears considering it was _ his _idea to be in the Preserve that night. She does not want to reprimand Peter but to show throat is simply not in Talia’s nature. The Pack cannot see her as wavering in this matter.

"Stiles Stilinski is hardly a child anymore. And our own Emissary, Deaton, has vouched for him ... is the reason that we even knew to seek his aid. Do you suppose he would make such a recommendation lightly, my brother?" Talia leans forward in her seat. Her eyes shimmer crimson ever so briefly as she zeroes in on Peter. "Do you suppose that I would take such a recommendation lightly as it concerns my own son?"

Discomfort ripples through the room as the Pack watches rare unrest between their Alpha and her sibling. He might be her Second, but even Peter knows he’s overstepped. His sister allows him a chance to save face or suffer the consequences. Peter exhales slowly and tilts his head ever so slightly to indicate his submission.

"Of course not, my Alpha," Peter says quietly. "Forgive my temper."

"I understand," Talia offers gently. "I worry about the boy's youth as well but he comes highly recommended from the Druids. And as for his record, he may rival you but look how well you turned out."

Relieved laughter burbles through the room and Peter gives his sister a wry grin. He leans back in his seat and snorts derisively.

"Rivals me? Hardly."

A smile flits across Talia's face. She doesn't allow it to take root because despite the lightened atmosphere, the fact that her eldest son is currently held in a room specially designed by Peter to hold captured feral rogues never leaves her mind. Her beautiful boy, now scarred and deeply damaged, howls his throat raw perpetually trapped in his beta shift. Peter reads her expression and knows the thoughts behind it. He stands and the rest of the Pack fall silent.

"Let the boy come, Alpha. We cannot afford to do less than everything possible to salvage Derek's sanity and health.”

Talia nods toward Deaton. Her eyes meet Peter’s again and they both know if this fails, Derek’s life is forfeit.

* * *

Stiles exits his dad’s cruiser and turns toward the main house. The Hale property is massive - over a hundred acres apart from the nearly 130,000 square foot mansion. The Pack entire could live within its walls if they chose to without much crowding but instead private homes are nestled within a heavily forested Preserve.

Stiles’ gaze travels around him seeing the unseen. Lines of power cut straight through the Hale home and Beacon Hills. The use of local stone and wood tie the structure to the very land with shimmering veins stretching from the foundation into the soil. A long drive circles the house and outbuildings providing only a narrow boundary between house and wood. Stiles suddenly sees generations of Hale children racing out the doors and straight into the Preserve. He smiles. Suddenly he sees something else — a shimmer zipping between the trunks of the closest trees.

“Hello, there … are you here for me?”

“Son?”

Stiles gestures for John to wait as he steps toward the darting light. It pauses and then does an intricate dance in the air; a triple spiral briefly appears before Stiles, then fades.

“Yes … I’m here for the family,” Stiles acknowledges.

Humans call them will-o'-the-wisps and many believe they can lead a person to their ultimate destiny. In practice, Stiles knows the wisps aren’t quite that forthcoming. Mankind still makes his own fate but sometimes needs a nudge. Or, as in this case, to be led to a path that others don’t want him to take. 

It’s probably the height of rudeness to go wandering around a wolf pack’s den before being formally introduced but ignoring the fae realm is a lesson he learned the hard way. He turns to his father.

“Dad, stay here.”

“Stiles -“

He shakes his head. “It's fine. I was invited but you’re human and not Pack. The Council would have to reprimand you. I’ve got a little bit of status to protect me. Please?”

John Stilinski purses his lips tightly before nodding; his frame taut with anger, frustration and concern. Stiles wishes he wasn’t the reason … _ again _ … but that is probably something that will never change. The laws governing child/parent dynamics were written long before Stiles ever graced the world with his presence. He exhales and continues to follow the now-insistent line of brilliance as it arrows toward a large carriage house at the back of the mansion. The lock scarcely pauses Stiles when the wisp slips between the sliding doors. They glide apart on carefully maintained rails. Inside the dim interior, Stiles senses a presence. The wisp, having led him to his destination, disappears. Stiles steps tentatively over the threshold. 

What strikes him then is a hideous rats nest of emotions. Anguish, confusion, fear, rage … it’s like every negative feeling humans are capable of slithers over and around Stiles’ consciousness. The Spark allows the assault because he knows the were is oblivious to the fact he’s projecting his pain into the physical world. Stiles idly wonders how the hell his Pack even managed to get him back here in the first place. Stiles allows the waves to crash over and around him but it isn’t easy. Any mundane would suffer horribly in close proximity. It was probably a close relat—

Claws prick the tender skin of Stiles’ throat, dragging him back to the physical world. Hot breath sears along his cheek. 

“Rude little mage, enjoying your gawk? Give me a reason to not tear your throat out where you stand.”

Stiles stretches his awareness out until he finds his father. John Stilinski is safe and untouched if not furious at being blocked by three large werewolves standing around him.

Good thing too. Stiles hates it when he has to be mean.

He flicks his wrist and the claws vanish accompanied by a very undignified croak. The now-human hand jerks back leaving Stiles free to turn and face his attacker. An older man with gleaming blue eyes glares at him warily. 

“You … pulled me out of my shift,” he mutters. “How the _ hell _ did you pull me out of my shift?”

Stiles grins and shrugs. “Useful trick an old friend taught me. I’m Stiles, by the way. You must be Peter.”

“Charmed. I’ll ask again … why shouldn’t I end you?”

Another roar echoes from the dim interior.

“Because if you do, Derek will never have a chance.”

“Can you help him?”

Stiles turns toward the new voice. He bows his head respectfully to Talia. 

“I don’t know if I can do anything,” Stiles says. “Derek’s injuries are more than merely physical. But I really want to try.”

Talia studies him intently. He knows she can hear his heartbeat and tell his sincerity. At last, she nods. 

“Come with me, then.”

* * *

The carriage house is connected to a large stable towards the back. The stalls, built long ago, have stone walls and thick wooden gates of dark mahogany. These have been reinforced with iron bars and mesh. Stiles feels the residual impressions of fear and pain. He frowns. 

“Who else has been held here?”

“Rogues, feral or Omega. The Hale’s have a duty to protect others from those who refuse to follow our laws. For most, it’s a mercy to be put down when the human and the wolf cannot merge peacefully,” Talia explains. “Since human law doesn’t extend to our land, each Pack develops their own method of dealing with strangers. Some join with us. Some move on. The rest are humanely executed.”

Stiles winces. “Their blood permeates this building. I can hear their screams.”

Talia shares a look with Peter. She walks to the last stall. This one has been double-reinforced and built up with taller walls. When she touches the door a garbled whine comes from inside and something thumps against the door. Stiles approaches slowly. 

“Open it.”

Peter snorts. “Are you insane? He barely recognizes his own kin. You'll send him into a full-blown rage.”

Stiles closes his eyes and inhales deeply. When he looks back at Peter, his pupils seem to glow with an amber light. Peter opens the door. 

“_Oh, big guy_ … what have they done to you?”


End file.
